Left Behind City
by nothing-chan
Summary: Kissing America was like watching a star collapse in on itself; a million rays of light spitting into the barren land around, like watching one million universes be created and one million more die, all vibrating at the same wavelength, a methodic movement colliding with the rhythm of his lips, like feeling everything all at once.


A stumble, a laugh, a not so unintentional trip, landing them face to face in the grass, dew tickling skin. Italy is smiling, brown eyes closed, and Germany isn't breathing, his face too red and his palms too sweaty to do anything other than stare at the way the sun dips into his collarbones or the way his shirt slips up when he lifts his arms, rolling across the grass like a free animal. The hyperactive boy jumps back up, wanting to play football again, ignoring his untied shoelaces and pieces of grass stuck to the back of his head, impatient when his companion does not automatically join him. Eventually he does however, clearing his throat, and the two return to their innocent banter of kicking the ball back and forth, an idle way to be close under the heavy afternoon sun.

It was romance, pure, clean, the kind girls journal about and television shows profit from. It was not what everyone visualized, but scratch off the societal, profit-selling surface and it was still the same, the love everyone wants, the togetherness you can only feel with one certain person, if you are lucky to ever feel it at all.

So Japan was happy for them, they were his best friends, and they were so deep inside the rabbit hole of love it showed on their hazy faces and in every jittery movement they made, nudging hands and stealing glances of shared emotion. He cared about them, and to care about someone is to want to see them happy, and they were overjoyed, so he was happy, happy, happy.

But for some reason his fingers clenched around the clay cup of tea in his hand when they pranced about outside, smiles so wide they looked as though they would stretch off of their faces and engulf everything in a sparkle of euphoria. Happy.

The door slid open behind him, barely audible above the whir of fans positioned about the room, the heavy slam of sneakers shaking the walls and rattling Japan's voice box useless, until they came to a stop next to him, just out of his vision.

"It's so hot; I'm sweating like a stuck pig over here." Of course it was him; only he would forget to take his shoes off before entering the room.

America glanced around, eyes falling on a discarded magazine, deciding to use it as a fan, the flimsy pages barely offering enough air to make a difference, but he continued anyway, nose whistling slightly as he breathed in and out heavily. Japan did not answer; he was watching his friends tickle and dance and feel together, happiness setting between his brows like a crease on a poorly cared for paperback novel.

"I take it they told you?" The boy sat down, making the wooden table he rested upon casually creak in protest, not paying anything much mind, now observing the other two countries as well.

"Yes, I'm very happy for them," Japan answered, an automaton response, dispensing the words with a sip of cold tea.

"About damn time, Italy is so bad at keeping secrets," This caught Japan's attention, and he glanced over, watching a bead of sweat drip from America's bangs to catch on his jaw, angular and unfittingly noble.

"You knew?" When the only thing the tan nation did was laugh, Japan could not help but frown in response, a wave of annoyance and sticky heat rolling over his body.

"Everyone did! I knew it from day one," America continued to chortle under his breath as Italy tripped in his escapade of running away from Germany, beginning to scream about a scrapped knee. "You mean to tell me you didn't notice, Mr. Reading-the-atmosphere?" He glanced over, challenging, playful, and Japan looked away, again void of any answer, instead taking interest in the two panicking boys outside, one with tears beading in his eyes, the other red in the face with heat, emotion, and attempted comfort.

Soon after, Italy stopped crying and pulled Germany down to sit with him on the ground, blades of grass twining between his fingers and a thoughtful look on his face. They were talking about something important now, the way Germany watched the country's lips move with eyes an ocean of changing emotion a telltale sign a conversation meant for private ears was about to occur.

"They look happy," an obvious comment, from a thick-headed boy, something to be expected of the Western nation who sat close-by, magazine now set down and hands clenching the flimsy material underneath them.

"I know, I am happy for them." Insert coin, receive statement, perfectly packaged and punched out, boxed and shipped, a statement meant to carry the weight of the world completely empty of any warmth.

"You say that a lot," America looked over, sneakers bobbing to a beat trapped inside his head, electric gaze so much hotter than the humidity all around.

"Well it's true."

"Everyone's happy for them."

"Yes, but this is different, I'm their best friend." That statement was not intended to slip out and Japan crushed his lips between his teeth, concentrating hard on the large fan swirl slowly above, churning the quickly worded conversation around the room.

"Yeah, I guess you're right…" America's attention shifted back to the two outside, much to Japan's relief, but he was not silent for much longer, much to Japan's dismay. "But that's the bad thing, isn't it? You being their best friend I mean."

"I don't see how that is negative in any way." The other boy sighed, his shoulders tense, chewing his lip thoughtfully, thinking searchingly about how to articulate the thoughts floating around his head.

"Well, their together now, so they'll probably spend a lot of time together, and want to be alone, and have secrets they won't tell anyone, even you, even though you're their best friend. They'll hold hands when they're with you and ask you to take their picture and go on dates alone, without you."

"So? That is just normal couple things, I don't expect anything different," an impassive tone to hide the ultimate truth behind everything that had just been said, to hide the fact Japan already knew.

He already knew he was, and would forever be, the third-wheel, now more so than ever. It did not bother him, not one bit, because his friends were happy, and he was happy for them, everything was okay.

America was getting visibly agitated, turning to stare passionately at the seated country, glasses slipping down his nose, slick with sweat. "That's not the point!"

"Then what is? That I will be alone? I've been alone for many years, I always have been, I'm used to it, I do not mind," Italy leant into Germany's shoulder outside and Japan closed his eyes, the bright scene before him burnt into his eyelids, but before he could sip the last of his now room temperature tea, America jumped up, hands slamming the table and feet cracking against the hollow ground. He was towering over him and grabbing onto Japan's kimono before the raven haired boy could react, cup bouncing to the ground and tea dribbling out across the floor.

"You do mind, in fact you mind a lot! Nobody could not mind being alone, not even you!" Japan was rigid with fright, but not at the stronger nation gripping onto him, but at the words exiting his mouth, each one sliding into his pores and infecting his body, a disease chipping away at the beautiful façade he had taken so long to painstakingly paint. "Why are you so afraid? Why are you so scared of admitting you aren't happy?"

And he was not happy, not one bit.

He was not happy he would be isolated again, because the only ones who had kept him company over all of these years had finally figured out that two was much better than three, and that being together in innocent infatuation would far surpass their many times together as an axis of three. He was not happy he would go back to waking up alone, no plans for the day, no pressing arrangements, no daily training, no group pasta dinners, the only sound his ever slowing heartbeat and the echo of always expanding silence pressing into his ears, consuming his brain, rotting away his thoughts to a dull monotonous roar that was only silenced by a short, blissful sleep at the end of each day.

He wanted to feel happy for them, he wanted to appreciate everything they had bloomed to become, all of them, but he could not, no matter how hard he tried the loneliness crawled back up and left him bitter, watching them with distant jealousy and contempt, all while holding them so dear at the same time. Such is the problem of loving others, of eternally wondering if they loved you back just as much, that one voice in the back of your head constantly nagging, reminding you they do not, until the day they leave you abandoned and unhappy, alone all over again, back at square one.

And it was at this moment Japan realized that he held too many things dear, whether he liked to pretend he did not had no effect on the real answer in the end. He had grown attached, something he was not supposed to do, and he got hurt because of it. He was human.

"Don't be afraid…" America was not the blazing wonder he had been before, spitting off carnal bouts of energy with his words; he was dimming, hands loosening around Japan's color and limbs softening. "I don't want you to be afraid anymore, I won't let you be alone anymore…"

Japan knew what was going to happen, so he tried to close his eyes and he tried to stay still when America's lips connected with his, but it was too much, so he wound his arms around his muscular back and clung to the damp cloth as if it were the only thing left in the world.

Kissing America was like watching a star collapse in on itself; a million rays of light spitting into the barren land around, like gliding by a nebula, fingers emerged in the gas and dust, like watching one million universes be created and one million more die, all vibrating at the same wavelength, a methodic movement colliding with the rhythm of his lips.

Kissing America was like feeling everything all at once, a feeling that made Japan's knees weak and his body lean forward, desperate for support. It was not happiness, it was not a false smile or a hidden hurt, it was togetherness, pure, clean, whole, togetherness.

It was love.

* * *

_Hello._

_This was mostly inspired by that feeling you get when you are supposed to be overwhelmingly happy for someone, but you aren't, and you just don't know why. I think it's unrealistic to say humans are all going to be 100% supportive and happy of their friend's accomplishments, because it just doesn't work that way. We get jealous, we get sad, we feel abandoned, it is just the way we function, yet some people seem to think it's possible to be perfectly holy and never feel that way at all._

_Pft, liars._

_Also inspired by the song Left Behind City by Hatsune Miku. Mmmmm, I love me some melancholic Miku songs._

_So, please review, favorite, and have a nice day._


End file.
